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Authors: Edwards, Bonnie

Thigh high

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Thigh HighThigh HighBonnie Edwards



Twinkle Twinkle Little Thong

Thigh High

Parlor Games


To Laura Langston and Vanessa Grant.May the Muse remind us we write, therefore, we rock!


DM's voice rolled over her, whiskey smooth, pebble rough. With the deft hand of a master, he took her into the realm of the sensual. Throaty and hot, the distinctive sound rolled like rumbling skies around the master cabin. The poetry he read of love, loss and betrayal followed paths he created along her searing need, until she found her most needful flesh and, with a lover's touch, tipped herself over the edge toward release.

Fingers slid through slick, tender flesh, moist and plump. Around. Around. Trickles of need whispered to her womb deep and empty.

Her whole life was empty these days. But she couldn't think of that, not when release beckoned. Her breath slowed, deepened as her lungs reached for air. Her heart thumped, pulse beats rose as sensation took over again, thought drowned.

His voice came back seductive and deep and pulled her again into the quiet of rising expectation. She closed her eyes as his voice entered her, hot against her heart. The remembered weight of a chest pressed to hers, of thighs pushing with power between her own, flesh sliding into flesh, pulling along nerve endings so taut they screamed. His voice in her ear, strong, sexy and low, carrying her along. Taking, stroking her neck, her chest, nipples and down with slow strokes of his tongue.

With two fingers inside, she rolled her precious pearl of nerves with her other hand until she crested, weak and small.

Music rose all around, sweeping through her as the last pulses ebbed. It was enough. It had to be.

She wasn't about bar prowls for sex, and she couldn't have a relationship. Not now, maybe not ever again.

Rolling to her side, she listened to the song he played for her, just for her, full of pain and loss. When it was over, she threw back the covers and went to wash her hands.

DM's voice came back on, quieter, more seductive than before. The man was good. The man was cool. The poetry was gone now, replaced by his rolling commentary on the blues songstress highlighted tonight.

Victoria's CHOK blues-in-the-night radio disk jockey was the hottest thing this place had going for it. Well, him and the guy over on the houseboat side of the marina who stared at her all the time.


Francesca Volpe couldn't remember squat about numbers. Never could. So she wrote important ones down until they stuck in her memory. Sooner or later, she'd remember the combination of this safe. But sooner wasn't now, so she yanked at the piece of paper in her shorts pocket and flattened it out on the wall in front of her while she dialed the combination.

Finally, the safe door clicked open.

Blown away by the fact that she even had to use a safe, she dug way into the back. Fiona's thong was in here somewhere.

Cold, hard diamonds against warm, soft velvet filled her hand, and she lifted the scrap of material gently. Fiona should have kept the thong in the designer's box, but no; her sister had decided the rich didn't give a rat's ass about their possessions so she didn't have to either.

The thong caught on a corner of a thick manila file. Anxious not to tear the velvet, she set it down, then pulled out of the safe everything that could possibly be in the way.

She took out a fireproof box that contained so many important papers her head swam. It held her sister's will, her sister's house deed, her sister's insurance policy. Next came file folders, then a copy of her parents' will. Everything came out, even the ownership papers for the yacht.

A yacht, for cripes sake.

Frankie Volpe was standing in the saloon of a yacht with four staterooms. Up to her armpit in a wall safe and she still couldn't believe it. Go figure!

And since when was a living room called a saloon?They belonged in old westerns, not on million dollar floating palaces.

She leaned in tight to the wall and winked at the scruffy brown dog that had all but adopted her. “Hey boy, how you doin'?”

He cocked his head and wagged his stubby tail. She'd decided he must've had it caught in a door when he was a puppy. It wasn't cropped exactly, more like he just lost the tip. He was her kind of dog, lost, lonely, a little rough around the edges, but lovable.

“Ah! Got it. Finally.” She pulled out the thong and set it carefully on the coffee table in front of the leather settee. Looked more like a built-in sofa to her, but she still had a lot of boating terms to learn.

She considered the thong. Diamonds, glittering and cold, littered the front vee of black velvet. She shivered to think of all those sharp edges so close to the joy button.Oh, ugh.

The deep safe had been stuffed full. She took care to set all the papers and files back into the safe in reverse order, to be sure it fit.

When she turned back to talk to Scruffy, all she saw was his stubby tail and wet feet heading topside. He'd snatched the thong off the table and taken off with it!

“Hey! You little pervert! Give me back that thong!”

But he was gone when she got to the deck. His bouncing short tail was just visible as he raced along the floating dock toward the houseboats tied up a couple of docks over. A small community of houseboaters called the marina home.

Her former doggy pal must live over there in one of the houseboats.

She took off at a dead run after him, not caring that she was barefoot; night was falling and the floating dock was strewn with heavy gauge rope and chains. She picked her way as quickly as she could through the obstacles, keeping one eye on the scruffster as she went.

She wasn't quick enough. He disappeared for a full minute, but she'd bet anything he'd taken off for the waterfront park on Dallas Road. Oh shit, if he got to the off-leash part of the park, he'd drop the thong for sure.

She ran faster, no longer needing to watch him except in her mind's eye. He was a playful mutt, sure to have doggy pals. She imagined a tug of war, the velvet tearing into several pieces, the diamonds flying in every direction. “Shit! Shitshitshit!”

Her thighs burned with her run, her lungs strained, but her heart knew she'd lost him. She bit back a sob, gathered strength and picked up her pace again.

She reached the bottom of the ramp, steep now because it was low tide. Grabbing onto the rail for support, she dashed up the incline. She dragged in a heaving breath. Her chest blazed hot, and she could swear she felt the beginnings of a heart attack.

Oh man, how did she ever get this out of shape?

She wheezed once more and launched her aching self up the ramp, metal surface rough against her bare feet. The hard metal honeycomb was there to prevent slipping in heavy weather, but for bare feet, it was a killer.

She reached the halfway point when the dog reappeared at the top of the ramp and headed straight down toward her, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Lolling out of his empty mouth.

She stopped, put her hands on her knees and dragged in a deep, burning breath. Her grateful lungs expanded.

“You…you…lost it…I'll…I'll…kill…kill…”

He licked her hand as he trotted past her down the ramp. At the bottom he turned right toward the houseboats.

Frankie dragged her body the remaining few feet to the top of the ramp, then searched the immediate area, but there was no thong in sight. He'd disappeared for long enough to bury it, or tear it up or, worse, hand it off to another dog whose owner would recognize the diamonds for what they were. A bonanza.

Lightheaded, she sank to her butt and laid her head to rest on the rail support. That thong was worth fifty thousand dollars!

She had to get it back.

If she was lucky, they'd find it when they did the dog's autopsy. She scanned the marina laid out below her.

The floating dock was cement and ran from right to left with several docks running perpendicular, like straight fingers out into the harbor. Each finger contained several slips. To the left was the marina side or the visitor's pier with visiting boats of varying sizes. Farther down were the fishing boats. To the right of the ramp were three fingers for houseboats. A subdivision of them, in fact.

She'd liked them, and the idea, at first sight.

But the sight she wanted now was of the dog, heading to the one he called home.

His bouncy rear end showed up as he reached the third finger.

A man, correction,theman who'd been watching her every time she was within view, whistled to Scruffy. The dog bounded faster.

She couldn't lose sight of the dog again, so she dashed down the ramp as fast as her bare feet on the rough steel would allow.

Whistling for the scruffy little dog might not mean a thing. Maybe the hunk was just another soft touch who fed the beast, the way she did. Either way, he hadn't seen her mad dash because he turned away and sat on one of the lawn chairs on his deck. He faced away from her toward the inner harbor and put his feet up on the deck rail. Settling in for the night, she assumed. Great. He could help her search for the thong.


Daniel Martin cracked open a beer and settled in to watch the ferry to Seattle churn out of the harbor. One beer before work took the edge off, warmed his throat, soothed his nerves and put him into a blues frame of mind. He'd gone from domestic brands to beer from all over the globe to test the effects of each one. Tonight's was Dutch. He tilted the bottle away, glanced at the label out of habit, ran his tongue around his teeth to gather the flavor then took another sip. Not bad.

He put his feet up on the rail of his float home and nearly dropped his brew when Barkley jumped into his lap. “Easy there, boy, you'd think you'd know better than to squish the package. Oof! Get off.” He picked Barkley's back paw out of his crotch with a grunt. Instant relief.

The dog licked his chin.

“Is that…is that…your dog?” asked a husky, heavy-breathing female voice from behind him. He craned his neck around and dropped his feet to the deck at the same time.

It was the hottie he'd noticed from the yacht on the marina side. “You could say that. He's been mooching off me so long, I guess he does live here.”

Good thing his paw hadn't damaged the goods. The goods in question sprang to life, as usual, at the sight of the compact, dark-haired dynamo.

The woman was built just for him, he was sure of it. And it was about time she showed up. They'd been glancing each other's way ever since she'd washed ashore.

He grinned, thinking the dog was good for at least three doggie snacks for delivering her. “Has Barkley caused trouble?”

Her chest heaved in and out a couple times, breasts rising and falling with each heave. He did his best not to look, but she was in a bikini top that left little to the imagination. And Daniel had a great imagination. “Down, boy,” he said, not sure if he was talking to Barkley or his libido.

“He took a thong. And I didn't see where. It's not anywhere near the top of the ramp, because I followed him.”

“I see. Was it leather? He's got a thing for leather.” So did Daniel, but it wasn't the time to mention it. “Shoes, that is.” Maybe after he got her shoe back for her, she'd be grateful.

“Not a shoe. A thong.” She looked exasperated. “You know.” Deep heave. “Underwear.” Her breath was still labored, still entertaining him with soft jiggles of flesh and cleavage.

The image of her fine behind parted by a thin strip of leather made him sit up fast and straight. He put his hands up in surrender. “Oh, I see. As much as he loves leather, he loves women's underwear even more.” The count was now officially up to four dog biscuits. “His favorite day of the week is when Bitsy Mayer, two slips over, does her laundry. He takes her panties all the time.”

“I don't give a rat's ass about Bitsy somebody's underwear.”

He played at being offended. “Bitsy does. She's on a fixed income and the underwear she favors is expensive,” he quipped.

His reward? A reluctant lopsided grin that winded him with its hesitant charm. He went on, digging for more. “They come with that heavy-duty flat panel in the front to firm the belly and some kind of stitching up the back to make the most of her butt.”

Damn things cost him a fortune every month. “I'm beginning to suspect Bitsy enjoys the idea of me shopping for her undies.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “Bitsy's sixty-eight.”

Her raised eyebrows put an end to the fun. Her smile disappeared. So, okay, she wasn't impressed with his comedy. He'd always been better with the blues.

But still, a lady shouldn't have to fight with Barkley over her underwear.

“Are you sure you want your thong back after he's dragged it all over the pier? He chows down on them sometimes. Tears the crotches right out.”

“Yes, I want it back! Regardless of the condition. He ran up the ramp with it, and I've got to get it back. Do you know if he has a hidey hole anywhere? Does he bury stuff?”

She looked about to cry.

“Hey, it's a thong. I'll buy you a new one.” He liked that idea. Much more fun than buying for Bitsy.

“It's a special thong. My sister needs it. She's on her honeymoon and she called to have me send it to her.” Her voice got higher and more agitated with every syllable. She sounded desperate now.

“It's not yours?” That was too bad; he liked the idea of fantasizing about her in a thong. He'd never seen the sister.

“You can buy your sister another. I'll take you to a nice lingerie store I know.” That could be fun.

She looked about to spit nails. “I've got to find that one. It's special.”

“How special?”

“Very. Look, it's got sentimental value. She bought it to celebrate her engagement and planned to take it on her honeymoon. Now she'sonher honeymoon and she wants it.”

“I see.” He pretended to think hard when all he could really think about was the spectacular rise and fall of her breasts. He didn't want to be a pig, but he was a red-blooded male and there they were: round and pert with the nipples that pointed upward like two perfect pearls. “You could still buy her a replacement,” he suggested.

She took another deep breath, but this time he figured it was one of those looking-for-patience deep breaths that women did so well, not an out-of-breath-from-running kind of heave.

And a woman looking for patience was not likely to agree to a date. “I'm sorry, but I don't have a clue where he'd bury it. But I can help you look for it first thing in the morning. I get home from the station around fiveA.M.”

It wouldn't kill him to stay up a few extra hours after his shift to wait for her.

“You're leaving?” She looked at the beer bottle rising from his lap, condensation slipping and sliding down onto his hands. Kinda looked like his…

“Yep. I'm on the air at midnight. It takes fifteen minutes to get to the station.” He stood. “I take an hour to prep, so I'd better get moving. I can wait for you to wake up before I hit the sack for the day. But if you wait until much after seven I'll be pretty useless. So, I'll see you bright and early?” The question was all about her name, not about when he'd see her.

“Frankie. I'm Frankie Volpe. And I hate early mornings. So, if I don't find it, I'll still be searching the park when you get home. Look for me there.”

“You sure that's a good idea? That park's not the healthiest place to be after eleven or so. It's used by all the normals until then. A lot of people take their dogs for the last walk of the night along the path.”

“I'll be fine. I've been in tougher neighborhoods and survived.” Her eyes glittered and her chin came up, stubborn and cute as hell.

“What's this thing look like anyway?”

“It's sparkly. Very sparkly. Black velvet. With rhinestones all over it.”

“Sounds like it would hurt.”

She rolled her eyes. “Looks even worse,” she said, and gave Barkley a scowl before she turned and headed back down the float.

“You must love this sister a lot if you're willing to search all night,” he called after her.

She waved a hand without turning back.

“Barkley, man, I owe you big time. Frankie Volpe is definitely the catch of the day.” Then he remembered she hadn't cared to ask his name.

“Hey!” he called again, aware that everyone on this side of the marina could hear him. “I'm Daniel and I'm on CHOK radio, the blues show from midnight to four. Give me a listen tonight. Maybe I can figure out where Barkley hid it.”

She gave him a salute and took her fine ass up the ramp.


CHOK radio. The blues show. When Frankie got to the top of the ramp, it hit her. His voice was different off the air, but still sexy and deep. His on-air voice was intimate and coaxing.

Daniel Martin. DM, the blues DJ. The man whose voice filled her master cabin with earthy sexuality.

She heated from her chest to the roots of her hair. It was one thing to let the man into her head, to use his sexy drawling voice to lead her into release. It was quite another to meet him under such mundane circumstances.

Kind of took the pop out of her whole fantasy life.



An hour and a half later, Frankie pawed the ground around the roots of yet another tree and came up empty. The pine needle scent had long since lost its freshness. She'd been under these damn trees so long she felt like a mushroom. Sticky pine pitch clung to her palm, filled with needles that stung like thorns. Her knees were a mess.

Hard as she tried and feeling more miserable than a dog pound executioner, she couldn't figure out a way to broach the subject of cutting Daniel's doggy pal open. It wouldn't have to be a big cut, she reasoned, just from the bottom of his ribs to his little useless peter. The thong had to be wedged in there somewhere, just waiting to pass on through.

A creature with more legs than she cared to think about crawled through her hair, but she didn't even flinch this time.

She'd never felt so dirty. But she refused to let some dirt get between her and finding the treasure. Besides, real dirt in the great outdoors was healthier than digging through, say, a dumpster in an alley.

Admitting that, yes, she'd even dumpster dive to get the thong back, she returned to her search. She felt around for some freshly dug earth, but everywhere she put her hand felt compacted under the spiky, dry pine needles.

She could go back to the yacht to get a flashlight, but she didn't feel like explaining her midnight treasure hunt to the weirdos hanging around. The types of people who inhabited the park at this time of night weren't to be trusted with a dollar, never mind a thong studded with diamonds.

Which brought her back to the DJ and his dog. A dog's belly was no place for diamonds that could cut. It would be a kindness to operate. Surely Daniel would see that and agree. He struck her as a reasonable man. She'd pay for the whole thing, of course.

Maybe if she grabbed the dog off the deck of the houseboat she could dognap him and take him to an emergency vet clinic. At least for an X-ray. She felt better immediately. Yes, an X-ray would be the best option.

Her panic had discombobulated her to the point of forgetting that X-rays existed.

She could trust a vet with diamonds. They probably swore some kind of oath or something. Like doctors. If they did have to operate, maybe she could be in the room to get the thong when they retrieved it.

Her hands were scraped, and one finger still bled from a sharp piece of glass she'd tossed to the side. Her numb, dirt-encrusted knees protested as she patted the ground around her. She'd had it up to here with kneeling and crawling through and around trees.

Nerves skittered along her spine. The park was much quieter now than when she'd begun her search. When she'd first arrived the place had been full of normal folk out with their dogs, or biking and inline skating along the waterfront path, but now it was a different story. Daniel had been right. The oceanfront pathway was a haven for walkers and joggers who made the most of the evening.

But after eleven, even the stalwarts had disappeared into the trendy James Bay neighborhood and expensive condo buildings that lined the inner harbor.

Ten minutes ago a young couple disappeared under the tree next to her. The moaning and rustling had begun almost immediately. She was tired of waiting for them to finish. Polite was polite, but she was antsy to get back to the marina to get the dog.

She listened hard and heard some definite panting coming from under the huge tree. The idea of digging around under there when they were finished grossed her out. What if she squished a condom in the dark?

The sex-generated moans were kind of a turn-on, though, so she settled in with her back to the tree trunk and waited. The sounds of lovemaking arrowed to her pussy and made her wet as the couple got further into each other, letting the real world fall away.

She'd had that kind of heat once. Hot loving that filled her world. As Blaine had filled her body, he'd taken her heart, her soul. She blew out a frustrated breath and set thoughts of Blaine aside. He was gone and good riddance.

But man, could he turn her on.

Of course he could, she reasoned. With his smouldering good looks he'd been able to practice with every other woman he could find. His bad-boy attitude meant he found plenty.

“Oh baby, yeah, do that. Suck it, suck it good.”

Since it was the man's voice, Frankie was able to visualize what the woman was sucking. She sighed.

She missed sex. She liked sex. She wanted sex.

She'd left home suddenly and hadn't packed her vibrator. It was still in her nightstand in her abandoned apartment.

Which was probably rented out months ago. Her furniture would've been sold. She hadn't thought of clearing out the place, just got her ass out of there. She'd grabbed Fiona and run, scattering her family like petals on a breeze.

She'd gather them again someday. For now, she snorted, thinking of someone getting a deal on her old bedroom furniture and finding her underused battery-powered joy machine.

Ah, yes, the weight of a lover on her chest, the push–pull of a hard pair of hips fused to hers. She wanted it again.

She wanted it now. The rustling under the next tree continued, the voices low and crooning.

Sweat trickled down her neck into her bikini top. She swiped at the moisture, sure she left a dark smudge across her chest.

“Oh yes!” the young woman squealed. “This feels so good…and you're sooooo bad….” Her voice heaved with each breath, giving it that breathy quality that said she was ready. Frankie remembered saying much the same thing in much the same way.

From the sudden silence, she guessed the bad boy had found his mark and slid home. Was that the delicious sound of skin slapping skin?

Enough! She couldn't bear to hear any more, especially when her hands were too filthy to use on herself and her vibrator was long gone. Frankie rolled to her knees and crept as quickly and as silently as she could around the far side of her tree. The other couple, wrapped up in each other, would never hear her.

Pathetic, that's what she was, listening to other people making love. She wasn't sure when she'd become too uptight to look for some action, but she had. Her pitiful vigil under the tree proved it.

That damn Barkley had a lot to answer for.

Scraped knees, a cut finger and a throbbing need all lay at the feet of that perverted little beast.

She could make the dog's owner take care of some of these problems. The very scrumptious Daniel the DJ. The way his on-air voice wove through her into her deepest fantasies proved he knew his way around a woman's body. She could ask him to kiss her scraped knees, bandage her finger and take care of her deep-down throb as soon as he got home.

After all, she'd gotten off on just his voice a time or two.

A night with the appealing DJ might be just what she needed to calm her jitters after six months of crazy. His voice alone took her deeper into her sexual fantasies than her vibrator ever had. If his voice was that good, imagine how good his hands and mouth would be.

“OH! BABY!!!” One last squeal of rapacious delight caught her ears as she hurried down the path toward the lights of the marina.


Daniel put on Etta James's newest and got back to his daydream about Frankie Volpe. She was hotter up close than he'd thought. He'd watched her for the last two weeks and wondered why she was alone on such a big yacht. Boats that size tended to require crew, but he hadn't seen anyone else onboard.

No one else in the marina had seen anyone else either. TheBoondogglehad been a matter of a lot of discussion on the houseboat side of the marina. All anyone knew was that the boat had docked in the middle of the night amid a shroud of secrecy and a fog of misinformation.

If the harbor master knew anything about the owners of the yacht, he wasn't saying.

All Daniel had been able to do was stare hard at the redheaded powerhouse from afar. Up close, Frankie was enough to make a man weep.

Her eyes raked a man bare. Her tongue, sharp edged and quick, could flay a man wide open. But all that served to do was make him want more of her. All of her.

He liked spitfires. And he'd bet Frankie Volpe could spit more fire than any other woman he'd ever met.

She'd been pretty upset about that thong Barkley had taken. When he got home, he would take a run through the park to see if she was still there. Not likely though. No sane woman would wander a dark park at this time of night no matter what neighborhoods she'd survived.

He doubted she would ever find the thong. Barkley must have the instincts of a politician for burying dirty laundry, because Daniel had never found anything he'd taken. The mutt had to have found the perfect hiding place for his secret stash of underwear. Like a pervert who collected panties off clotheslines, he was determined to get away with it for as long as possible.

If Barkley had actually eaten the thing he'd have to get him X-rayed. Rhinestones were sharp.

But the mutt hadn't eaten Bitsy's underwear, only stolen them, so it wasn't likely he'd eat Frankie's.

Etta's song ended on a mournful wail, and he went back to his microphone.

“Twinkle twinkle little thong, how I wonder where you belong,” he said, “wish I may, wish I might, see you twinkle in the moonlight,” he added as an afterthought. He chuckled low and intimately with the hope Frankie was tuned in.

Fire crackled under his skin at the idea of seeing her in a sparkly velvet thong, her ass cheeks high and round, divided by a silky black line that traced her from back to front.

At least now he could strike up a conversation whenever she was on the float. His schedule was so different from most people's that he hadn't found a convenient time to talk to her before. Either he was on the way to work while she was returning home or she was long gone when he woke up. His morning was afternoon for most people.

But timing wasn't an issue with Frankie. She knew his crazy shifts and would expect him to be on an odd schedule. He couldn't wait for his shift to end. If he could get her past the thong mishap, he might have a chance with her.


“Twinkle twinkle little thong, how I wonder where you belong,” Daniel said in a croony bluesy voice that tracked heat from her heart to her deepest belly. The man had a voice that stroked through to her vitals. The in-joke about her missing thong made her smile.

“Wish I may, wish I might, see you twinkle in the moonlight.” She laughed out loud at that one. The man was funny and hot—a potent combination. She hoped he was visualizing her in a sexy scrap of black velvet, because she'd love to show him the real thing.

She opened her laptop and searched for the radio station's phone number. Eventually she found her way through the automated answering system to the booth and talked to a person who identified himself as Daniel's producer. He told her to turn her radio volume down, then put her on hold while she waited until the next song ended.

Thirty seconds later Daniel answered.

“Hi! It's Frankie.” The shower she'd taken had cooled her, but now she was hot all over again.

“Any luck with your thong?” His voice warmed to molten lava. And she heard “I want you” under the words. She shivered with anticipation.

“No. And I'm afraid I have to ask you to help me round up your doggy pal so we can get him X-rayed.”

“I thought of that myself, although he usually doesn't eat the underwear he steals. If he does, I've never seen it come out again.” He chuckled. “I'm wincing because that didn't sound right. Not the kind of conversation I usually have with a woman I want to impress.”

“You want to impress me?” She grinned and let the smile show in her voice. Flirting was such fun. The spice of middle-of-the-night phone flirting added to the days of eye contact.

“Hell, yes, I want to impress you. As long as you're free to be impressed.”

“I'm free. You?”

“As a bird.”

With those important preliminaries out of the way, she tucked the phone close to her chin. “I like your voice. That impresses me. I love the music you play. That impresses me.” As did his shoulders, his caramel-colored eyes and the shock of sun-tipped hair that fell over his forehead. His pecs, his arms, the lazy but focused way he watched her whenever she walked up the ramp.

He must think she didn't see the way he tipped the brim of his ball cap up to watch her. It was subtle, that tip, but since she'd become aware of him, she'd caught it every time.

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